


True Colours

by darthauricchio



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gardener!Harry, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Soulmate AU, artist!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthauricchio/pseuds/darthauricchio
Summary: In a world which only shows its colours to those who have found their true love, Harry and Merlin are resigned, solitary, middle-aged men with very little hopes left after years of wandering in search of purpose. Harry is a retired professor with a passion for gardening, while Merlin is a disgraced painter - what ambitions could they possibly have? When they become neighbours, however, they discover the beauty life had in store for them all along.





	True Colours

**Author's Note:**

> "True Colours" is my very first serious fanfiction written entirely in English. Despite my insecurities, as I know it leaves much to be desired, I must admit that I loved writing it and I'm excited to share it with the rest of the fandom.  
> I don't know if I would have found the motivation to write it if it hadn't been for my precious friends, who inspired me and encouraged me through the whole process. They make me a better person.  
> Lastly, a personal note: this was originally supposed to be called "La Vie en rose".  
> When I heard this [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGk6d6-osPY] particular version of the song, my feelings for someone took shape. I won’t name any names, but this fic is dedicated to her, a dear friend of mine whom I cherish very much.

Ever since birth, Merlin had been a stubborn, obstinate creature. At age twelve he had forfeited his ridiculous name in favour of an extravagant pseudonym which he still carried to this day; on his fourteenth birthday, he proclaimed that he would never get married, a promise he had maintained unrepentantly for over fourty years. And once he was done with secondary education, he set himself on the path of the painter.

To those lucky artists who had truly known love, painting came as naturally as breathing: the world suddenly revealed its vibrant colours like a lover shily undressing for the first time. It was quick, unexpected, and overwhelming - like being born anew. Merlin never knew what that could feel like, and he repeated himself that, after all, he didn't really care. A big believer in results rather than embellishments, he thought he could manage just fine by portraying what was around him in elegant shades of grey, because as flat and monotone as his works could seem, they represented exactly what they had to: no colours were necessary to convey the misery of autumn leaves floating lazily on a muddy pond, or vivid Sunlight shining through the branches of a blossoming tree, or the robin hard at work on his little nest - those who could only see the beauty of nature through its colours were, in Merlin's opinion, far more limited than he was.

But he was a lad no longer. His pride had relented over the years, the lies he kept rehearsing to justify his lone existence had subsided in favour of bitter, pessimistic regret. As much as he was renowned and appreciated in some artistic circles, he'd have to be delusional not to notice the stinging dart of pity striking from his peers' gazes, hiding behind their fake smiles and raised eyebrows. And Merlin was many things: colourblind, unloving, and unloved - but _not_ delusional.

It was in that cynical spirit that he had decided to distance himself from his fellow artists, to retreat and live the second half of his unsavoury life in tranquility. A sketchbook in one hand and a weekender in the other, Merlin moved back to his old family house in Scotland, in hope to find serenity; for was there any point in chasing a chimaera that had proven itself unattainable for fifty-four long years? Wouldn't _that_ have been much more pathetic than simply letting himself grow old in solitude and peace?

Again, Merlin was a stubborn man.

 

~~~~

 _"Ochlodes Sylvanus, or large skipper"_ Harry noted on his journal, while studying the fuzzy wings and thin antennae on the specimen. The little butterfly had accommodated itself amongst the leaves of his impeccably trimmed hedge, resting its wings after a long flight: perfect spot to become object of Harry Hart's attention. The middle-aged entomophile added _"presumably brown"_ to his entry, then turned to get his trusty camera from the console table. When he turned back to capture the butterfly, it had disappeared, probably distressed by his rapid movement.

« Shit. » he mouthed in frustration. Another lost chance.

Harry Hart wasn't a sentimental man, not really. A sentimental man wouldn't have left behind the relations and attachments his social position afforded him - he would have struggled to make his legacy survive, preserving his family values and the dynasty's honor with them. He had done nothing of the sort.

A bit of a rebel from a very young age, Harry's contacts with his parents had been cold on the good days and downright hostile on the bad ones. His hair untamed, his clothes shabby, his spirit free, his mind questioning: waging war against status quo and oversimplification, he had quite possibly defiled every precept his family had tried to impose onto him. The years spent jumping from one public school to the other, and peremptorily avoiding military service, had gained him scorn, spite, and possibly even hate - especially considering the field of studies he had chosen to dedicate himself to. Granted, he could still be considered an academic, but _lepidopterist_ wasn't exactly the career Lord Hart senior had had in mind for his only heir. But he was dead now, and so were his complaints.

Harry's mania to record his encounters with butterflies wasn't out of sentimentality, then - the man was simply incapable of giving up, an asset which had manifested primarily during his time as a biology teacher. Ah, _those_ were the days: back when he still thought he could make a change in the world, one student at a time. There was a particular instance in which he'd had to straight up _battle_ against the expulsion of one of his pupils - a young boy named Eggsy, as he recalled - who'd stolen the headmaster's car and run away without leaving trace; to be fair, the old man had it coming: one does not threaten to shoot a boy's pet dog and not suffer the consequences.

While he was still a teacher he was ready to turn the world upside down for his students, and part of his combative spirit kept burning within him under layers of disappointments accumulated through the years. Hence he refused to surrender to the idea that he'd be colorblind for the rest of his life: even as a retired professor, Harry Hart kept waging war against his own sabotaging instincts, nourishing his soul with the wonders of nature, which was why he had lately taken up the hobby of gardening.

His humble abode, half of a semi-detached countryside house, was surrounded by a well-kept row of flowery bushes. While nothing special could be said about the front yard, which he shared with the left half of the building, his own backyard was a cornucopia of natural beauty. Lovely shrubs of aster, violets, and phlox adorned the area surrounding his precious beehives, which he tended to daily; headstrong ivy branches devoured one of the building's walls, latching onto the robust bricks and surrounding the windows with their intrusive foliage. The southernmost area of the garden hosted his pride and joy, a delightful bundle of thistle plants, which abundantly surpassed him in height. They seemed to enjoy warmth just as much as he did, so Harry had positioned a small wooden bench right next to them where he would spend his afternoons reading, drinking tea - or the occasional alcoholic beverage, and scouring for butterflies to add to his photo album. A scientist needed to be cold, that much was true, but Hart didn't have the heart (ha!) to kill those beauties for his own amusement; he often found himself wondering how well he'd be able to sketch a butterfly with his pencil, while taking notes on his journal. An illustrated catalogue would have looked charming, to say the least, but art was never his strong suit. No, he was rather content with his photographs.

The kettle whistled aggressively from within the kitchen, meaning it was time for his afternoon tea. As he made his way inside the house, he noticed a car was parked right in front of it.

 

~~~~

 

In the years following Merlin's departure from his family's old house, many things had changed. His parents had had it turned into a semi-detached, selling the western side of it to a retired old couple, or so he recalled. After their death, many suitors had come and gone, without Merlin paying any particular attention to the current ownership of what had once been his home; the side that had gotten sold, specifically, had hosted his bedroom, as well as the guestroom, which he had personally turned into a study as soon as he had learned to hold a paintbrush.

It felt a bit strange, being unable to revisit those places that held so many memories, some dear, some best forgotten. To aggravate the eeriness of the situation, he hadn't actually set foot there in quite a long time, since his parents' death rendered outdated every reason to pay the house a visit. But there he was again, and for once he intended to stay.

« Just like old times. » he sighed, smiling drily. Then he went in.

The old furniture was covered in white sheets, turning darker as dust settled in - everything else was exactly the same as he remembered. He set his keys on the cupboard next to the front door, and brought his luggage upstairs, to the master bedroom. It was, after all, the only bedroom left after the building's division, which pained him more than he cared to admit; however, he recalled the room offered a remarkable view of the backyard and the surrounding hills.

The backyard: now _that_ was a big change from what he was used to. His half of it looked barren and unkempt, just like he remembered from his childhood, while the western side regurgitated life from every square inch. The new owner, whoever they were, must have had quite the green thumb.

Merlin wondered if it’d be appropriate to go introduce himself to his new neighbour - after all, they were going to live next to each other in the middle of nowhere for God knew how long. Some company might have been nice; if nothing, at least to have someone to rely on in case of emergency. The artist was the type of man who’d rather die than accept somebody’s help, no matter how dire the situation, but he was getting old, and with old age came both ailments and acceptance of one's weaknesses. _"Aye, why not"_ he thought, _"No point in becoming an outright hermit."_

Hence he set off, heading downstairs towards the front door, a large, worn piece of wood that had definitely seen better days. Merlin made a mental note to have it changed as soon as possible, then he adjusted his redingote - which he hadn't taken off at all - and left the relative safety of home in favour of social interaction.

 

~~~~~

 

When Harry had moved to his side of the cottage, the other one was already empty, its previous owners having passed away a couple of years before. No one had ever come to the house, save for the occasional tourist wondering whether it was for sale - to which he politely replied that he had, quite honestly, no idea of whom the house belonged to.

Part of the countryside's charm was that it was both isolated and extremely neighbourly: you could always rely on those living nearby, but your chances of running into them were pleasantly remote, if not scarce. For a man like Hart, who enjoyed the simple joys only solitude could grant - gardening, of course, but also reading, taking long baths, watching old spy movies - living on his own, almost completely isolated, had sounded like a wonderful idea back when he'd purchased the house; after two years, not so much. The thing about Harry Hart was that, despite being a geek and an academic, he could also be described as outgoing, charismatic, charming: a true people-person. Limiting his communication with others to the occasional trip to the store was getting increasingly tiring, so much so that he could feel himself socially wither day by day. Either he'd find himself something to do besides chasing butterflies, or he might as well sell the house and retire to a long-term facility for decrepit old men.

But suddenly the situation seemed to be different: an unfamiliar person had parked in the shared driveway with the boldness of someone who owned the place, leaving the car unlocked with a trunk full of luggage. Whoever the intruder was, they weren't there on a short visit.

Normally, he would have given his new neighbours the time to settle in, unload their car at the very least. That would have been the proper, polite way to act; after a few hours, he would have knocked on their door with a homemade meal to welcome them and get to know them better. However, something about that particular situation didn't feel normal at all. In fact, a tingly uneasiness had settled in his chest, biting and scratching like a caged animal, itching like a fever - he was driven towards the unknown presence, and couldn't bring himself to bear the insufferable wait that manners required.  
_"Manners Maketh Man"_ , he used to constantly repeat to his impatient students. Harry had lived by those words for his whole life. He'd never thought there would ever be a day in which he'd firmly reply _"to Hell with it"_ to his treasured motto, and yet there he was, fidgeting with the buckle on his overcoat as he frantically approached the front door. For a moment, he paused to question whether he had gone insane, recalling another famous saying about curious felines meeting an untimely end. The moment came and went in the blink of an eye; before he could reflect, he was out.

 

~~~~~

 

His eyes were warm, comforting; they radiated a soft heat, the same synesthetic feeling one gets from bonfires under the starlit sky, or soft blankets freshly out of the dryer. They were _brown_ , they must have been. Merlin never knew what people meant when they used that word - now he was starting to get the picture.

Brown. Not like tree trunks, not quite so dark. Brown like a light blend of tea, or persistent rust on an iron railing. A brown that washed over the grey like autumn leaves covering the harsh cement of a city sidewalk.

His hair was also dark, and poofy, a stormy cloud harboring menacing thoughts underneath it; thoughts of revolution, of rebellion, of youth still hidden beneath the streaks of silver.

He wore a nicely starched white shirt underneath his blue overcoat, and Merlin thought the cold tones complimented his light skin with impeccable class. The man seemed to have good taste, for sure, but Merlin wondered why he was thinking about his counterpart's refined style in such a moment, since he had just been _punched in the damned face_ by a rush of colours.

Colours, that he had never seen before.

Colours, that he thought he'd never see.

White teeth peeked from behind the man's parted, red lips - he was clearly as surprised as Merlin was. The painter forced composure upon himself and gathered all his strength to keep a blank, emotionless expression. Sadly, that effort required his full concentration, and so he stood still, unable to move, barely capable of processing the inputs from the outside world.

 _"The sky is blue - of course it fucken is. Get yer shit together."_ he muttered to himself, adrenaline summoning his accent from where he kept it remotely locked away.

« I suppose introductions are in order. » the man in blue said, extending his hand to greet him. He had regained his self-control far quicker than Merlin could ever hope to; the artist sheepishly greeted him in the same fashion, clearing his throat with urge.

« Of course. My name's Merlin, I'm the former owners' son. » he said, and Merlin realized he sounded more like he was justifying his presence than anything else.

« Merlin. » the other smiled. « I'm Harry Hart. »

 

~~~~~

 

For a while, there was silence.

Harry had invited the other man in, offered him a cup of tea, and now he was busy gathering all the willpower he possessed in order to concentrate on pouring the beverage. His eyes, however, couldn't help but side-track and try to peek at Merlin's lean figure, seated behind him at the kitchen table.

He was tall, and quite slender, though not gaunt; his face seemed sculpted in marble like a Renaissance statue, his protruding, regal profile made even more striking by the lack of hair on the man's head. Everything about him made Harry think of ancient beauty, undiscovered masterpieces, secret stories lost to the merciless pace of time. His hands spoke, too: veiny, quite large, and covered in paint stains in several shades of gray. Hart wouldn't even had noticed they were gray unless they contrasted so starkly against Merlin's tan skin tone, golden undertones embellishing the velvety texture; the tips of his fingertips, colder to the touch, were instead quite pink, almost blueish, like they belonged to someone in dire need of a cordial.

He was broody, that man, and quite headstrong. Since he had entered the house, all he had done was stare out the windows and answer in monosyllables.

« So you're an artist, I take it? » Harry had asked.

« Yes. » had been the reply, and Harry understood.

Frankly, he himself barely knew how he was holding up, or finding the strength to converse about trivialities. Since Merlin had entered his life, the whole world had changed. Maybe he was simply trying to be polite, or to make up for his nervousness with banal small-talk. Or, and this was far more likely, he was talking out of his ass, to make up for the fact that he was _fucking terrified._

He hated not being in control of the situation, but he simply couldn't help it: all he could do was endure, rationalize, and move on - if only Harry Hart had been a rational man.

« I thought this moment would never come. »

Merlin was taken aback by that sudden confession. As Harry set two matching teacups on the table, the artist finally looked at him, and his eyes met Harry's once more. To his own surprise, the world didn't lose its life, its richness: the colours were all still there, the spell hadn't been broken. There was no undoing what their souls had shared the first moment they'd met, and not only did it mean Merlin wasn't dreaming - he had tried, sneakily, to pinch himself as to wake up - but that the man in front of him was the one he was destined to love. Fifty-four years of waiting couldn't have prepared him for the day he actually met his soulmate, and now that the day had finally come, he found within himself a hope he thought he had lost forever.

« I relate to that more than I'd like to admit. » he replied with a faint smile, which he held confidently as Harry observed him in silence. After a few seconds, the latter spoke again.

« I'd say you're not what I expected, but that'd be a lie, wouldn't it? At this point in my life, my expectations have long subsided. »

« Seems like a pleasant enough outcome, though. I could think of worse fates than spending eternity at the side of a handsome, well-mannered professor. »

« That sounds foolishly optimistic. » Harry chuckled softly. « How do you know I'm a professor? »

« I saw your pictures hanging in the hallway. Either you've had an adventurous sex life and a formidable amount of children, or those were your pupils. »

« Observant. »

« So I'm told. »

« Not as much as you think, perhaps, or you wouldn't have used "handsome" to describe me.»

« Now who's being foolish? »

They kept at it for hours, that game of banter and admissions, revelations and poorly-masked flirting. Harry told Merlin about his work as a biology teacher, and Merlin could feel the heat of passion radiating from the other man’s face, beaming like the sun as he recalled the joy of fond memories. He understood him, when Harry talked of how rewarding it was to shape young minds and unravel the mysteries of nature to them; and he envied him, for his stern nature had always kept him from engaging with the youth in an earnest, spontaneous way - not without a few glasses of scotch in him, anyway. Sure, he would have enjoyed being a mentor, and might even have been good at it, if not great; but Merlin had never been anyone’s first option when it came to pursuing an artistic career, for who could want the help of a blind old man?  
  
« What’s the matter? You look awfully pensive. » Harry said, awakening Merlin from his torpor.  
« I suppose I never fully realised how much I was missing out on. »  
Hart smiled at that, and instinctively went for Merlin’s hand, resting beside his empty cup. He held it between his, never breaking eye contact, and the artist found himself returning that smile; not without surprise, but not puzzled, either. Instead, he tightened the grip, and his grin widened.  
« Here I thought all these years of waiting would have taught you a little patience. »  
« Why play hard to get when we both know I’m already _gotten_? » Harry teasingly retorted, but Merlin could see he was blushing.  
« Come, » he continued « There’s something I’d like you to see, and that I have yet to fully witness myself. »  
With that, the two left the kitchen and headed to the backyard.

 

They did not anticipate how breathtakingly beautiful its true colours would be.  
  
~~~~~  
  
To those who lack the Sight, or those who have started taking it for granted after years of living in full colour, shades are but a generic, if useful, descriptor of the world around them. Some might be more special than others - one might be particularly fond of the shade of their partner’s eyes, for example - but they’re just tools, with little to no meaning attached to them, no soul, no _value_. In a way, by forgetting the value of a gift granted only by true love the world turns grey again. A different kind of grey, one that covers Earth’s wonders not with monochromes, but with disinterest, and apathy.

 

Merlin and Harry’s world was confronted by a revolution that centuries of habit could never hope to withstand.

 

The garden was a boon of grace and grandeur, in which the iridescence of _green_ , shining, ever-changing, met the dashing richness of _purple_ , as most of the flowers in Harry’s garden coincidentally fashioned the elegant colour. Leaves and grass, devouring earth and stone with primordial hunger, were tamed by the beauty of soft petals and their vibrant resilience - such fragile balance, and to think it was made possible by the devoted care of a loveless gardener.

 _That_ was what nature was supposed to look like. Merlin reprimanded himself for his pride - how could he _possibly_ have thought that obsidian, smoke, and onyx strokes were worthy of capturing such majesty on their own? But as bewilderment subsided, a whole world of possibilities opened up to him. For the first time in a painfully long period he felt the _need_ to grab a brush, and pour his everything onto a canvas. Once again the drive that had led him to become an artist so many years before reignited in his heart.

This time, Merlin’s hand went searching for his companion’s.  
Their fingers intertwined, their mouths slightly open in disbelief, the two men looked at each other, unsure of how to put in words what they had witnessed.  
  
« Think you’re ready to fall in love, Merlin? » Harry asked, masking uncertainty and anticipation with a playful smirk.  
  
« Actually, Mr. Hart » the painter said « I think I already have. »


End file.
